


Arsenic and Old Friends

by mielipieli



Category: Skulduggery Pleasant - Derek Landy
Genre: Anton and Ghastly appear shortly, During the War, Gen, Sensitive!Saracen, that one scene implied by book 13
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:35:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28369230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mielipieli/pseuds/mielipieli
Summary: Saracen is sick and getting sicker. In Erskine's tender care he realises that his illness might not be entirely natural.
Relationships: pre Saracen Rue/Dexter Vex
Comments: 3
Kudos: 17





	Arsenic and Old Friends

**Author's Note:**

> Edit: Just realised I said that Vengeous killed Larrikin... so #canondivergence i guess

Erskine is poisoning him. 

Saracen hadn’t caught even an inkling of that before the first dose or the second or the third. He’s shivering and feverish and his stomach is cramping and it’s hard to focus on anything. He doesn’t know what to do. His mind is not listening to him, drifts off into Erskine’s thoughts and emotions without his permission. 

Saracen knows what’s happening. He’s in shock. His subconscious is trying to disprove what it has found out, even though Erskine’s thoughts are spelling it out loud and clear.

It wasn’t on purpose. He tries not to delve too deeply into his friends’ thoughts. They should have their privacy. That’s always been Saracen’s stance, at least. The lack of focus made him slip more deeply when he was clinging on to Erskine as a source of calm during a particularly painful series of cramps.

“How are you doing?”, Erskine asks. 

There’s worry in his face and guilt in his thoughts as he sits down on the edge of the bed and wipes Saracen’s face with a wet towel. 

Saracen clamps his clattering teeth together: “I’ve been better.”

He can’t let on that he knows. With how weak he is now, Erskine would overwhelm him easily. His knowledge of the situation is Saracen’s only advantage. He needs to use it to its fullest extent. 

The symptoms of the poison are mimicking the flu and one dose doesn’t seem to do it. Saracen may be feeling like shit but he’s feeling a bit better than he had two hours ago, so Erskine will probably need to give him more later on. 

Saracen isn’t sure why Erskine is bothering with any of that. They’re alone here. There’s no one around who’d notice it if Erskine just slit his throat. Even if he’s worried about the others getting suspicious once they arrive (Which won’t be for another four days at least and that’s if things go according to plan. They usually don’t.), there’s poisons that would kill with one dose. And then there would have been a much lower risk of discovery. 

Erskine leaves the damp towel lying on his forehead and frees Saracen’s hair from under it, then combs his hand through it gently. 

“Is there anything I can do for you? Something to eat or drink?”

‘No’, Saracen’s head replies immediately. The longer he can stretch the time between meals, the longer Erskine can’t give him another dose (He could, Saracen’s dumb brain stupidly supplies. He doesn’t exactly need your approval at this point.). The clearer his head will get. He needs time to make a plan. 

He shakes his head: “I don’t think I could get anything down right now. I’m feeling mighty rotten.”

There’s a spike of guilt.

“I could do with some company, though. A story, maybe?” He gives a tired smile. 

Erskine nods: “Of course.” The Dead Men tell stories often. There’s little else to do when making camp in the middle of nowhere. “New or familiar?”

“A Dead Men story.”

In that first moment it’s not really a conscious decision. He’s always liked the way Erskine tells their adventures, making them seem like bumbling idiots and the greatest heroes to ever live simultaneously.

But when Erskine’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes and his guilt overshadows everything, Saracen decides that this will be the first part of his plan. He’s going to make Erskine feel as guilty as he can. Because when people are emotional, they make mistakes they otherwise wouldn’t.

“It was a dark and stormy night”, Erskine starts and Saracen giggles despite himself. 

Erskine grins at him and Saracen waves at him from underneath the blanket: “No, no, go on. You were talking in cliches. You know how much I love cliches.”

It’s too easy to joke around with Erskine. It shouldn’t be. But Saracen’s brain can’t help but see him as a friend even when his actions - his  _ thoughts  _ \- speak against him so clearly.

Erskine shakes his head, fondness in his thoughts: “It was a dark and stormy night and our wonderful, beautiful and capable heroes were wandering through this dark storm with only one goal: Destroying the evil villain they were after…”   
  


Erskine keeps talking, tells a tale of them going after Vile. They’d failed miserably but no one had gotten seriously injured, so it’s one of the stories recounted more often than others. Saracen closes his eyes and makes himself stop listening. If Erskine expects a reaction at any point, he’ll put the lack of one up to Saracen falling asleep. 

He doesn’t, though. Saracen isn’t sleeping when Erskine arrives at the part where they reach the base. He’s not asleep when they walk straight into an ambush. And he’s still not asleep when the story is over. 

“You’ve fallen asleep on me, haven’t you?”, Erskine asks after a few moments of silence. 

Saracen doesn’t answer, feigns sleep instead when Erskine’s hand combs through his hair once more. 

_ “Oh, how I wish I didn’t have to do this, my friend. But I simply can’t take the risk.”  _ The sentence is almost as clear as if he had spoken it but the only outward sign of Erskine’s struggle is a sigh.

The bed creaks when he gets up and the floorboards do, too, as he moves around the cabin. He’s clearly trying not to wake Saracen. His steps are slow and careful. But Saracen is still wide awake, his mind racing and the beginning of a plan forming in his head.

* * *

When he next wakes, Saracen is feeling better. Not much, of course, but the pain has gone down and he’s almost hungry. The smell of food makes him doubt that it will take long before his condition mysteriously deteriorates once more. 

Saracen pushes himself up a bit in his bed. He’s sweating even from that small an exertion, his hands shaking and his breathing short and laboured.

“Saracen!”, comes a shout from the doorway. “You really shouldn’t overexert yourself!” 

Saracen shakes his head: “It’s fine. I’m feeling better already.” He smiles at Erskine as genuinely as he can manage. He can’t quite get himself to look at Erskine. His mind is torn between reaching out to uncover Erskine’s motive and shirking away from him entirely. Saracen hopes that Erskine doesn’t notice how off he’s being. Or that he’ll at least attribute it all to Saracen’s condition if he does.

Erskine walks closer, keeps an eye on the cup in his hands: “I’ve made you some broth. You need the liquid and nutrients.”

“You’re a lifesaver, Erskine”, Saracen says as he takes the cup.    
  


When he lifts it to his mouth, his hands start shaking too much and Erskine takes it from him before he can spill too much on himself.

“Here”, Erskine says. His voice is soft as he holds the cup to Saracen’s lips. His eyes are fixed on his hand as if to keep from meeting Saracen’s eyes. His mind is filled with regret, though apparently not enough to stop Saracen from drinking poison.

* * *

Saracen starts feeling a hell of a lot worse about two hours later. Worse than he had before. At times, he can’t do much more than whimper. His stomach is cramping and he’s sore all over. His head is pounding and his fever is rising. Erskine is sitting next to him and, miming a good friend, he’s dabbing away the sweat on Saracen’s forehead. 

“I don’t think I’m going to make it”, Saracen says when the pain in his stomach is at a low point - something that will probably only last a few minutes. He’s speaking from experience.

Erskine dabs at his forehead again: “Nonsense.”

He ignores Erskine: “If I die without telling Dexter what my discipline is, he’s gonna kill me.” 

He grins weakly when Erskine gives a small laugh at the fault in his logic. 

“No, seriously. He’s probably still got hundreds of years to live, as long as he doesn’t get himself into too much trouble, which considering he’s Dexter Vex would be asking a lot. He’s still got hundreds of years to live and he’s gonna spend that whole time wondering what my discipline was.”

He’s rambling, he realizes. Fuck. Saracen really doesn’t want to die. He really  _ really _ doesn’t. He’s not ready. He goes on suicide missions all the time but he really fucking doesn’t want to die.

“You’ve gotta promise me that you’ll tell him if I die, okay?”

“You’re not going to die”, Erskine says again. The guilt flares up once more. “But, yes. I’ll tell him.”

Saracen takes a deep breath and hopes to whatever god is out there that Erskine won’t see right through him: “I’m a Lynceus.”

“Really?”, Erskine asks. His eyebrows are raised. He’s doubtful but relief is already clawing its way into his heart. Saracen won’t need to make an airtight case. He’ll just need to make  _ a _ case and Erskine will do the rest of the work of convincing himself. 

Saracen feigns indignation: “Were you expecting something else?”

“Kind of, yeah”, Erskine laughs - an earnest laugh, full of relief, that makes Saracen sick to his stomach. Although that might just be the poison. “I thought you were a Sensitive.”

Saracen huffs: “I’ve said like a million times that I’m not.” 

“I know, I know!” Erskine shakes his head. “I can’t believe you’ve been all mysterious for  _ centuries _ about being able to look through walls.”

“Hey!” This time, the indignation is sincere. Saracen is incredibly offended on behalf of the Saracen he’s just invented.

He’s just about to start complaining about the bad rep Lyncei get when the cramping starts up again and he’s left shivering and groaning in pain. 

Erskine talks to him gently, wipes at the sweat collecting on his forehead and reminds Saracen that he needs to keep breathing when the pain gets bad enough that he holds his breath to steel himself against it. Saracen can’t quite bring himself to appreciate the irony in that.

* * *

The next meal doesn’t worsen his condition. Which means that Erskine believes him. 

And after that, Saracen continues getting better. His fever goes down, the cramping gets few and far between and two days later he manages the short trip to the toilet without any help. 

Skulduggery and Dexter arrive the day after, right on schedule but late at night, scaring the shit out of Erskine. Saracen was woken up by Dexter’s presence at the edge of his mind almost five minutes earlier. 

“Damn it! Couldn’t you just knock? Was it necessary to pick the lock and sneak in?”, Erskine’s whispering. What for, Saracen doesn’t know. There’s no one still asleep and no one around for miles.

“And a good day to you, too, Erskine”, Skulduggery says. His voice is almost completely emotionless although the amusement can’t help but shine through. 

Saracen gets up to greet them properly. He manages fairly well. He’s not even breathing  _ that  _ hard from his exhausting feat.

“Jesus!”, Dexter shouts. “You look like shit, Saracen.”

Saracen smiles at him: “I was feeling a bit under the weather when we got here. I’m on the mend now, though.”

“A bit under the weather”, Erskine scoffs. “I was sure he was going to die for a while there.”

‘Yeah, so was I’, Saracen thinks bitterly.

“Are you sure he didn’t?”, Dexter shakes his head. “Jesus Christ, Saracen. I think you might have taken that whole ‘Dead Men’ thing a bit too seriously.”

Dex stares at him some more, then shakes his head again: “Sit down, Saracen. You look like you’re going to faint.”

Saracen also  _ feels  _ like he’s going to faint. He sits down at the edge of his bed and Dex kneels in front of him, feeling his forehead and asking questions about his symptoms. Dex has the most medical training out of all the Dead Men. 

“It’s just a flu, Dex”, Saracen attempts to placate. 

Dex scoffs and says, in a way that makes Saracen think he’s probably quoting Professor Grouse: “A flu can kill without a proper magical healer. Which I’ll remind you, we currently don’t have.”

“I’m getting better.”   
  


Dex taps down his throat and expertly ignores that Saracen has said anything. “Does this hurt?”

“No.”

Dex then launches into a series of yes or no questions about Saracen’s symptoms and the course of the illness, which Saracen answers begrudgingly. 

It takes ten minutes until Dexter runs out of questions and by that point, his hands are shaking and Skulduggery and Erskine have withdrawn into the kitchen. 

“You’re not going to die because of some flu”, Dex says after several painful moments of silence. He’s staring at Saracen’s hands and he’s terrified. 

“No”, Saracen agrees. “I’m going to die because a piano fell on me.”

Dex lets out peals of surprised laughter and looks up: “What?” 

“You heard me.”

“I’m not entirely sure that I did.”

“I’m going to die by piano.”

“Huh, so I did hear you.” Dex sounds strangely fascinated. “Are you sure that the fever didn’t boil your brain?”

“What?”, Saracen makes sure to sound appropriately appalled. “You don’t remember my plans of dying by piano? I’m sure I must have mentioned my lifelong dream at some point.”

Dex laughs again: “I’m sure you didn’t. Seriously, what’s wrong with your brain?”

“A lot. But it’s not like that’s such an unfamiliar condition for you.”

Somehow, that’s it and Dex starts giggling uncontrollably and Saracen can’t keep a grin from spreading across his face. 

* * *

Skulduggery and Erskine rejoin them ten minutes later, when Dexter is sitting in one of the chairs at the dining table and Saracen has settled into his bed more comfortably. 

“Are you going to be up to the mission?”, Skulduggery asks. He doesn’t sound particularly empathetic but Skulduggery never does. Making sure they all get out of dangerous situations is the way Skulduggery shows he cares. 

“I still have what...? Two days until we head out and another two until we should encounter any hostiles?”

Skulduggery nods.

“I’ll be right as rain by then.”

“If you’re not by the time we leave, you’re not coming with us.”

“Fair enough”, Saracen says. 

A battlefield is no place for the sick and injured and there’s no guarantee they’d find a safe place for him to stay any closer to Vengeous’ castle. The infiltration will be harder without him but Skulduggery is better at weighing risk and reward than the rest of them which is why they usually end up going with his suggestions. 

Skulduggery nods again, then demonstratively looks at Dex and cocks his head. Now that Saracen is looking, he can see it, too: Dex is working up to asking something, is steeling himself for an answer. 

“How bad did it get?”, he finally asks Erskine when all attention is on him and he can’t really get out of asking anymore. 

Saracen’s throat closes up.

Erskine rubs his face like he needs his whole body for the sigh that follows. He shakes his head, sighs again: “I was sure he wouldn’t make it, at some point. He was burning up with a fever, barely responsive at times.”

Dex lets out a breath. Saracen can see, can feel how close he is to crying. He doesn’t know what Dex would do without him. He doesn’t know what he would do without Dex. They’ve been inseparable since the Dead Men have been together. He’s the one Dex talks to when nights are long and sleep is hard to find. Dex is the one he talks to when the trauma of war is what fills everyone’s minds and it’s difficult not to drown in it. 

Dex looks at him: “You were going to die without telling me your discipline.”   
  


Skulduggery and Erskine laugh, loud and relieved that the worry is being forced out of the room. 

“What?”, Saracen asks, slightly dumbfounded, then catches himself. “No, I made contingencies.”

“What?”, Dex stares at him. “You know that that was a joke, right?” He stares some more, then shakes his head. “Nevermind. What contingencies?” He’s intrigued now.

“I told Erskine to tell you in case I die.”

Dex’s jaw drops comically: “You told Erskine and not me?” He looks at Erskine with something akin to disgust. “He told you and not me?”

Erskine shrugs and Dex turns back to Saracen: “Am I a joke to you?”

“If we’re being honest, then yes, a little bit.”

Erskine laughs nervously, not entirely sure whether Dex is being serious. Skulduggery is watching the scene unfold without moving a bone. He tends to notice much more in any situation than Saracen expects him to, even with Saracen already assuming that he notices more than expected. Still, Saracen is pretty sure that Skulduggery can’t tell, at least this time.

Because Dex doesn’t know either. And he’s desperately trying not to be as hurt as he is. 

“To be fair”, Erskine starts carefully when the silence has already hung on for too long. “Saracen told me with the expressed purpose of telling you.”

Dex takes a deep breath and then doesn’t say anything for far too long: “I am surprisingly upset by this. I’m going to go to bed and hopefully be over this in the morning.”

With that he gets up and leaves for the bathroom. Saracen would tell him, he realizes. He would tell Dex his discipline right now. But if he did, he’d have to lie about it because he needs  _ time. _ Needs time to figure out what the  _ fuck  _ he’s going to do about Erskine. 

Saracen doesn’t want to lie to Dexter. He doesn’t think he could.

* * *

Anton and Ghastly don’t come on schedule. The mood isn’t good before that - Dex is still upset, Erskine is anxious, Skulduggery has noticed Erskine’s anxiety and watches him curiously at times and Saracen’s convalescence has slowed significantly. It gets worse when the deadline has come and gone with no more Dead Men in sight. 

A day after, there’s discussions in the kitchen too quiet for Saracen to hear. They stop when he gets out of bed. He knows what they’re about, anyway. 

“I’m not an idiot, you know?”, Saracen says when they’re finally all in the same room again. 

“Could have fooled me”, Dex says even if he isn’t in the mood for joking. 

He’s sitting on the edge of Saracen’s bed and reaches over to feel Saracen’s temperature. Saracen bats his hand away. The last time Dex checked was barely half an hour ago. 

“I can make the same calculations you’ve been making. If you want to get there within our window, you’ll need to head out tomorrow. If it’s just the three of you, you won’t make it. In my condition, I can’t make the journey. There’s a decision to be made and I don’t particularly appreciate you trying to keep me out of it.”

It’s Skulduggery who breaks the silence that follows: “You’re right.” 

“There’s no decision to be made”, Dexter says. “We at least need to try. It’s too good of an opportunity to pass up.”

Dex hates Vengeous and wants to see him locked up before the truce goes through almost as much as Skulduggery wants to kill Serpine. He’s too smart to blame himself for Larrikin’s death and is therefore using all of his feelings of guilt to hate Vengeous.

“It’s suicide”, Saracen protests.

“Most of our missions are.”

Erskine shakes his head: “Not like that.”

They begin a heated discussion, emotions strong and directed. It’s hard to bear and Saracen lets his mind go wide, sweeps the area in an attempt to lessen the impact it’s having on him. He finds what he assumes to be local mortals, going about their daily lives. Some are sleeping, some just tired. Most feel secure and comfortable in their homes. 

Dexter’s anger is still strong and clear at the forefront of his mind.

Saracen goes even wider and then, there, right at the edge of Saracen’s abilities, even in a place as bare as this one, he notices two familiar minds. 

“They’re here”, he says and he can hear the relief in his own voice. “Maybe 15 minutes walking distance.”

* * *

The Dead Men leave in the morning, two men short of their seven since no one was willing to argue Saracen staying behind and none of them are willing to replace Larrikin when the war looks to be ending soon. They hug him when they go and they hug him even tighter when they return eight days later, relieved that Saracen’s condition hasn’t taken a turn for the worse in their absence. 

They return without Vengeous, who was already gone before they showed up. He’d left only a skeleton crew behind, but one that was alert enough that the others had to fight their way out, which led to some mild burns and some scratches but luckily nothing more serious than that. 

Even without a win, the mood is jolly. Saracen supposes none of them had actually expected that they’d capture Vengeous. The opportunity was good but even good intel only stays good as long as the opponent’s plans don’t change and Vengeous has rarely ever stuck to a plan they had intel on. 

Saracen is tense. He’s had a week to think about what he’s going to do and he hasn’t gotten any further than wondering how Erskine could try to kill him. And it’s not like he hasn’t tried to push that aside to try and make a rational plan. 

The furthest he’s gotten is slightly feverish dreams filled with Dead Men who don’t believe him, are in on it or have, by the time Saracen enters their tents, had their throats slit or died in some other equally gruesome manor. 

Suffice it to say, despite the others’ safe return, Saracen’s mood has not lifted. He’s tired and scared and angry and it’s possible that he’s starting to hate Erskine.

“What’s on your mind?”, Dex asks when they’re the only ones in the kitchen. 

Saracen stares at him (because he honestly didn’t think that Dex would notice, thought him too preoccupied with the failed mission to notice).

“You’re frowning an awful lot.”   
  


“I’m frowning less than Anton”, Saracen says and maybe his tone gets a bit too defensive.

“Well, there you have it”, Dex says demonstratively with a smile that’s tired and at least fifty percent frown. “You’re comparing yourself to Anton. That already means you’re frowning an awful lot.” 

Dex’s tone is still light and jovial and Saracen feels a lump in his throat at the thought that he wouldn’t be so jovial if he knew what this was about. “Not now”, he says. 

His eyes almost involuntarily drift over to the door to the living area where the others are sitting and Dex frowns. He’s suddenly suspicious and weary and  _ scared _ and Saracen wishes he could calm him down. But anything he could say would be a lie and Saracen won’t lie to Dex. 

So, instead, he squeezes Dexter’s shoulder with a quiet “sorry” and heads back to the living area. 

* * *

“General Deuce?”

Saracen is standing at the entrance to the General’s tent. They got back the day before, picked up by Sagacious Tome right on schedule. 

“Come on in”, Deuce calls. 

Saracen steps in cautiously. His heart is in his throat. He’s terrified. 

The General and Erskine are close. Saracen knows that. He’s also almost certain that the General isn’t in on whatever Erskine is planning. There was the relief when he spotted Saracen (apparently they’d had reports that Saracen hadn’t gone to Vengeous’ castle and had assumed the worst). There was the gentle squeeze on his shoulder when Deuce had told him to get himself checked out by the medics.

And Saracen had delved  _ deep _ . Had feigned dizziness to explain away his lack of concentration. And there’d been  _ nothing _ but concern and the deep rooted weariness of a man who wanted the war to be over already.

“Sit down. I’ll be with you in a moment. I just need to write down my train of thought.”

Saracen does and wipes his clammy hands on his trousers. 

He sits there quietly for a couple of minutes before Deuce puts down his pen and looks up: “What did you want to talk about?”

Saracen opens his mouth and is a bit surprised when nothing comes out. He closes it again. Swallows. Closes his eyes and when he opens them again, Deuce is looking mighty concerned, furrowed brows and everything. 

“I’m not going to like this, am I?”

Saracen shakes his head: “I need you to hear me out, anyway.” His voice sounds rougher than he’d anticipated. 

The furrows on Deuce’s forehead deepen, as does his worry, his weariness, his dread but he doesn’t say anything, just gestures for Saracen to start. 

“I wasn’t just sick”, Saracen starts. “I was being poisoned.”

The General’s smart enough to figure out the rest from that alone: “You could be mistaken.”

Saracen shakes his head: “I’m sure.” 

“Then, why aren’t you dead?”

“Erskine was worried that I knew - or would in time figure out - something. I’m not sure exactly what that something is. So I lied to him about my discipline - I told him that I was a Lynceus and therefore something one can plan for - and that’s when I started getting better.” Saracen feels strangely distanced from the story he is telling. 

“The healer didn’t notice anything.”

“Erskine is smart enough not to use anything a healer  _ could  _ notice.”   
  


And then they fall into tense silence, Deuce having run out of questions to ask to try and poke holes in Saracen’s story and Saracen having nothing more to say in support of his story. Deuce rubs his face and sighs a long, shaky sigh. 

“You know I can’t take your word on this”, the General says. His weariness runs deep and Saracen feels for him, he really does. Either Saracen is lying or he’s telling the truth and in both cases one of the General’s most trusted men is a traitor.

“Yes, I know.”

The General nods: “I will call for Erskine then and give him the opportunity to defend himself against your accusation.”

* * *

Erskine walks to the entrance, entirely unconcerned. Saracen has been tracking him all the way from the tent Anton and him share. 

That mood changes when he walks inside. There is, suddenly, realization, shock.

“You’re not a Lynceus, are you?”, Erskine asks, his voice strangely calm even as his mind suggests endless possibilities of what one might do. But fleeing isn’t viable, now, not from the middle of camp. They all know that the truth  _ will _ come out, by Sensitive if not voluntarily. 

Saracen can’t bear the thought of looking at Erskine, so instead he keeps looking at Deuce: “No, I’m not.”

“So, you know.”

“I know.”

Erskine sits down in the last chair the tent holds, maybe half a meter from Saracen: “I shouldn’t have stopped, then.”

It’s a punch to the gut and not one Saracen expected. He closes his hands into fists to try and stop Deuce and Erskine from seeing how much they’re shaking. 

“You’re admitting to being a traitor, then?”, the General asks, his voice tight in a way Saracen hasn’t heard before, his emotions hidden under a heavy blanket of professionalism that Saracen has no interest in prying under.

“I’m not a traitor”, Erskine says and Saracen can’t  _ help  _ but look at him now. Stare at him, to be more precise. “I’m admitting to attempted murder.”

He looks right at Saracen. He’s full of regret but this time, the regret is placed purposefully, is wholly directed at not having killed Saracen when he’d had the chance.

Saracen sees red. Erskine falls out of his chair before Saracen has even realized that he’s thrown a punch. 

He vaguely notices that he’s shaking. Maybe he’s crying. Maybe he isn’t. Saracen doesn’t know. All he knows is that he’s sitting on the cold, hard floor. That his knuckles hurt. That he’s alone in an empty tent.

“Saracen?”, someone asks. Confusion and worry that Saracen could almost get lost in. “Hey, Saracen.” Gentle fingers pull his hands apart and start gently kneading them. “Focus on me. On my voice. My hands. My face.”

“Dex”, Saracen realizes.

“That’s right. I’m here with you. We’re in the General’s tent.”

Saracen closes his hands around Dexter’s and Dex stills, stops talking. “I’m a Sensitive”, Saracen says. 

“Oh.” There’s a gentle undercurrent of  _ “I don’t care about that just tell me that you’re okay.” _ but Saracen needs to tell Dex and he needs to tell him  _ now. _

“Mind-reader. Not particularly strong. Reading anything more than surface thoughts requires deep concentration but I have a decent range and can read multiple people at once.”

“Why are you shaking?”

“Shock”, Saracen shrugs. His voice sounds distant and neutral. “I’m in shock.”

Dex stands up slowly, still holding Saracen’s hands and therefore directing him to do the same. He leads Saracen to the chair he was sitting on during his conversation with Deuce. 

Dex kneels down so they’re at eye level, even though Saracen is still staring at their hands: “What happened?”, gentle and calm even though his emotions are anything but.

Saracen looks up at him and he knows,  _ knows _ that this will hurt Dex more than any of the others. 

Ghastly is emotional but tough. He goes with the blows he’s dealt, has had to his whole life. Skulduggery has reacted to everything since the death of his wife and daughter with the same stoic nonchalance that is almost eerie to watch. It’s as if he’s a spectator in his own life. And Anton is a survivor, wrestles the gist day and night. Barely anything to happen in real life can hold a candle to the gist’s quiet whispers. 

(Saracen knows. There’s a reason he hasn’t shared a tent with Anton in years. The whispers are pervasive enough to sneak their way into his dreams if he does.)

Dexter has no such defenses. When Dex trusts, he trusts deeply and wholeheartedly, leaves no defense against disappointment. This could break him and Saracen doesn’t want to be the one to do that. But Dex deserves to hear this from him.

“Erskine is a traitor”, Saracen says and steels himself for the wave of emotion that is sure to come.


End file.
